


talking with a big smile, but they haven’t got a clue

by orphan_account



Category: Wet Hot American Summer (2001)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing, Underage Drinking, clove's bad music taste rearing its head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ben reveals he's never been to a school dance, and McKinley figures everybody has to have one terrible prom dance at least once in their lives. Except it's not all /that/ terrible when it's with somebody you actually enjoy sucking face with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talking with a big smile, but they haven’t got a clue

**Author's Note:**

> Oops this got out of hand, such as most things in my life tend to. More BenKinley fic because I’m a determined hoe who will create my own happy stories in this tiny fandom until 10 Years Later comes out and we get a mini-resurgence. Anyways, whatever. Here’s a fic where they slow dance together and Ben has a lot of emotions. warning for some slurs from memories long past for Ben. title from Cool Kids, and the song they listen to while they dance can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLDeVvv1fFY

It was lights out at Camp Firewood, and the air was thick with humidity and starlight. A chorus of cicadas and crickets and other nocturnal nightlife graced the midnight world with their sounds, wrapping up the small Maine camp in a blanket of safety and solitude that campers and staff alike found comfort in. Here, they were separate from the world, ensconced in whatever lives they wished to create for themselves, safe from outside prying eyes and judgemental parents.

Ben waited inside his bunk, one of the few without younger campers, flipping through last month’s issue of Rock’n’Roll World magazine with his flashlight. His light hovered over pictures of Bowie and Prince, a smile spreading across his face. They were just so cool, so unafraid of judgement. Nothing like how Ben ever felt growing up. An all-boys boarding school would do that to you. Periodically, Ben would glance out his window, squint his eyes, and peer into the darkness, waiting. Ten minutes, then twenty, and eventually almost thirty passed when he finally saw what he was looking for. He tucked the coveted magazine under his pillow and slid out of bed.

McKinley’s cabin was now officially empty for the night. Ben could hardly contain the glee that spilled out from his heart as he worked on his boat shoes and slipped on his sweater. It’d only been a couple of weeks since he and McKinley had shared their first kiss, and while Ben had initially panicked a few days afterwards, McKinley had been there the whole time; considerate, kind, genuine McKinley who soothed Ben’s worries with a hand through his hair and kisses under the moonlight.

The grass underneath Ben’s feet was wet with dew already, and despite the humidity in the air that he could physically feel, Ben wrapped his arms around himself just a bit tighter. Other than Susie and Coop, nobody else at camp had put two and two together yet, and Ben wasn’t sure if he was actually able to handle that yet. He shoved away remnants of memories tainted with “fag” and “queer” scribbled across his locker back at school and pressed ahead.

He managed two quiet knocks before McKinley nearly tore open his door, grin plastered across his face already, and loose strands of hair dancing in front of his eyes. He swept them to the side, tucking them behind his ears. He was dressed in his Reese’s shirt tonight, paired with the red shorts and red-striped socks.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, beaming. Standing there, only the lights of the cabin framing McKinley in an almost angelic glow, Ben’s heart seized with emotion— so, of course, he coughed awkwardly to fill the silence, because what else does a sixteen year old boy do when confronted with an influx of emotions he’s never felt before?

“Hey,” he mimicked, matching McKinley’s grin.

“You gonna stand there all night, or come in?”

Ben stepped closer, sucking in a breath. A thrill ran down his spine at how he could just do this out in the open. “I’d like to come in, if that’s alright with you.” He looked down at McKinley, biting his lip. McKinley met him halfway and pressed a quick kiss to Ben’s lips, tasting of mint toothpaste and goldfish crackers. One thing Ben had learned about McKinley so far was his penchant for brushing his teeth and then continuing to snack anyways throughout the night. McKinley had claimed that it was the “principle of it all, Ben,” before popping a few Snyder’s pretzels into his mouth from his pocket.

“I suppose there’s room for two in chez McKinley.” He moved aside and motioned for Ben to come in.

Ben gladly stepped inside.

Within half an hour, they were halfway through a Talking Heads record that McKinley had managed to score while in town, and Ben could tell by the reverence with which he held it, it was one of his prized possessions. After a few beers that he’d snagged, and a couple of shots of whiskey, McKinley was busting out his ridiculous dance moves. In truth, to Ben, it looked more like flailing while McKinley felt himself up, but it only endeared him more to the other boy. When he caught a sly grin from McKinley’s rosy face, he knew that McKinley was entirely aware of how silly he looked, and the pair burst out laughing. Ben took a sip of his own beer, licking his lips.

“You want some of this?” McKinley asked, twisting his hips in a corkscrew motion that was entirely unsexy. Ben snorted and brought a hand up to his face to stop from beer spilling everywhere.

“You’re crazy,” Ben said, grinning.

“What? You never dance to let off some steam?” McKinley punctuated his question with a few thrusts of his hips right into Ben’s face, who dissolved into tipsy giggles.

“I don’t dance,” Ben answered, swatting McKinley away. “Not unless, like, it’s for something on the stage.” The record petered out along with McKinley’s dancing, leaving a quiet crackle of static behind.

“No dancing? At all? What about at school dances?” He reached towards his bedside table for his solo cup and took a long sip, then wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. Ben reached up and tucked a few strands behind McKinley’s ear. They immediately flopped back out.

“Never went to any,” Ben shrugged. When McKinley finished taking a sip, he pulled his cup away to reveal a frown.

“Not one? Ever?”

Ben shook his head. He glanced downwards and toyed with the rim of his own cup, feet turned inwards, shoulders hunched. “Went to all boys school, so, when we had dances, it was with our sister school. Girls choice.” A pause. “Nobody, uh, asked me.” He tightened his grip on his cup. “Especially not after what the other guys wrote on my locker.” Ben, as much as he wanted to feel mad, just couldn’t bring himself to. All he felt when he reflected upon those memories was exhaustion. He’d never been one to harbor rage or anger for long, for better or worse, and in his school, that often left him at the bottom of the food chain.

McKinley’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie. “Well, they’re all shitheads, but don’t worry. School dances are lame as shit. Food sucks, music sucks, people are basically dry humping on the gym floor. I went with Debbie.”

“Tall Debbie?”

McKinley snorted. “No, my cousin, Debbie. My mom and dad made me go, and I was sure as hell not asking some poor girl only to lead her on. So, uh, I told Debbie and she agreed to go with me. I owe her for, like, a hundred years for that.” Ben brought his hand to where McKinley’s rested and gave it a squeeze, but McKinley pulled away to rustle through his slim selection of records on his dresser. Ben dutifully finished his beer in the time it took for McKinley to find whatever it was he was looking for, wherein he gave a small “aha!” of accomplishment. He flitted over towards the record player, carefully removed The Talking Heads record, and then slipped the needle onto this new record.

Soft crooning filled the room. McKinley turned off the overhead lights, leaving only his bedside lamp, and then danced his way up to Ben before offering his hand. Ben, dumbfounded, could only manage to accept, and McKinley whisked him up to his feet.

“What is this?”

“How ‘Bout Us by Champaign,” McKinley answered. He started swaying slowly.

“No, I mean, what’re you—”

McKinley cut him off with a kiss. “Shush, no talking, more dancing. We’re getting you that terrible prom dance that everybody should suffer through at least once in their lives.” Hands gripped Ben’s wrists and brought them to McKinley’s waist, before he slid his own arms around Ben’s neck.

For nearly the entire duration of the record, the pair danced in silence, and it was only at the end where the music swelled that Ben dared to open his eyes. McKinley was smiling, the corners of his mouth tipped upwards only slightly, but in a way that Ben had quickly learned to mean that McKinley was the highest level of content. The dim light of the bedside lamp cast shadows over the boy’s face, soft and tender against the contrast of the yellow-orange glow like when they sat around the flames of a campfire. Ben dared to lean forward and rest his forehead against McKinley’s. He tightened the grip on his waist minutely until McKinley opened his own eyes.

“Thank you,” Ben mouthed as the record ended. His chest ached in a way that could only be described as glorious. Flashbacks of spray painted slurs on his locker were replaced with the euphoria he felt when he first performed on stage, or when his mother had finally smiled months after his father’s suicide.

McKinley responded with one of his impish grins, sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, and then kissed Ben. Fingers toyed with the loose strands of hair that curled up at the nape of Ben’s neck.

Ben was pretty sure that right now, he could climb up on the roof of the mess hall and shout his love for McKinley loud enough for even all of Camp Tigerclaw to hear.


End file.
